


you’re ammunition without a gun

by kuro49



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Father/Son Incest, Kwoon Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:26:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Australians have a track record of fighting dirty.</p>
<p>They also have one of winning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you’re ammunition without a gun

**Author's Note:**

> getting post-grad life together and settling into a new job had me in a writing dry spell but apparently my last hansencest fic was from october??? i cannot believe myself.
> 
> since it is chinese new year, let's make the most of this year too!! :DD

It is never clean when she is mean, and her pilots are meaner.

When bar brawls and bloody knuckles, makeshift weapons and low blows, are more of a norm than a single fight in the Kwoon where a reset still means a fair chance at winning. The Australians only have a track record of fighting dirty.

Where Herc likes to take it to the ground every chance he gets, hanbō left abandoned an arm's length away, Chuck just has a habit of dragging dirt into every open wound when he keeps his father right there on those mats with him.

Whether it is Herc who ends up flat on his back or Chuck with his father straddling over him, sweat dripping down from his brow, it always ends like this.

Even after rounds and rounds in the Kwoon with no spectators to keep them from bringing forth their absolute worst, Herc is steady as he keeps Chuck bracketed between the spread of his thighs. The fabric of his sweats pulling tight across. His precision never does quite break even when he is still carrying that exertion from their Conn-Pod sims earlier in the day.

His concentration doesn't so much as waver as the trail of his sweat follows the curve of his jaw.

The fall of it keeps them both in their place until the taste of salt is hitting Chuck's lips. And then the kid is licking it off with a sweep of his tongue, leaving a sheen to his mouth before pulling it into a wide, wicked arc. It is a good thing Herc isn't looking for anything less. His heart might not be able to stand it when his blood is already rushing south so fast.

They are evenly matched here when Chuck yanks his old man down by the chain on his tags, licking into his mouth with every bit of that same offensive strategy he brings into Striker during every drop.

 

“Anyone can catch us, and this is where you want me to fuck you?”

Chuck isn’t looking for any worthwhile answer, not when an upward tilt of his hips gives him every indication as to what Herc thinks. But neither one of them are thinking with their heads right now. The friction is a sweet bonus when he can see how hard Herc tries not to bodily follow him home.

“No one that matters.”

Herc rasps out, and Chuck has to wonder how the man plans to last an entire night when he already sounds like he’s gone too many rounds with those four easy words coming unstuck from his throat. He sounds so hoarse, and Chuck only ever wants to make it worse.

“Everyone matters when we’re who we’re, _dad_.”

Chuck Hansen has lived with enough guilt in his life, what is one more thing.

He has already taken his mother’s place on this earth. He has already done his worst.

 

It is probably an easy way out when Herc calls this inevitability and stops it at that.

Drift initiated, drift holding, drift steady.

Herc needs to be able to get up in the morning and look himself in the mirror. If not in the eyes, Herc can still manage to make do. He only has a hard time believing an accommodation on this scale doesn't change a fundamental thing or two about himself. He has had plenty of co-pilots before, plenty of which he has never taken to bed with him. He should have done everything to keep his son out of the Conn-Pod and out of his head.

He could have done plenty, but he doesn’t do a damn thing different when Chuck finds him out of their Jaeger.

He is not half of what his parents had named him out to be, he isn't so strong.

But Herc still has no intention to have his son be the martyr in this partnership.

 

Chuck's emotions run like a wild fire, taking start in the depths of his eyes when he is looking at his father like he is sizing him up.

Herc can still figure this much out: Chuck wants a reaction.

And the kid is not looking for the wrong thing, just in the wrong place.

Where Herc takes the care to school his expression, not giving up any one thing Chuck cannot take for himself, he is drawing in each breath in quick succession. Only where Chuck has his hands curled around his rib cage, the hem of his worn tank shoved up artlessly to make space for the blunt edges of his bitten nails to take root. It is there where the drivesuit scars criss-cross that Herc gives any indication at all.

Here is a glimpse into what matches that same wild fire.

Knuckles white with exertion, knuckles red with blood. Herc is barely holding on to that very last shred of control here, and that is the absolute truth taking hold in that standstill distance scant between them.

Chuck still breaks first.

A hairline fracture damming over. He surges up at him, mouth going for that stern bow his father has his lips pulled into.

They have never had it soft or kind. The two of them slip into the same routine. Herc has a knack for the taste of blood in his mouth, and Chuck always exploits that soft spot to leave Herc eager, keening and accommodating when he lets Chuck bite his way down. Bottom lip and jaw and neck, collar bones then the start of his tattoos, Chuck can trace them blind and in the dark, fingers following where his teeth map him out.

If he is to make a conquest out of him, he plans to mark every inch.

Chuck wants Herc to walk away from this, feeling like he's been knocked down too many times in one fight.

 

The physical comes before, when his shoulders shove hard against the mats where he slams him down without reserve. The physical aspect is when he is blinking sharp bursts of stars from his vision, tasting blood in his mouth like sharp metal is being dragged across his tongue, and he is still getting up for another swing.

"You saying no to that, old man?

It is an easy fucking out.

"You are going to have to answer me."

There is a middle ground in all this.

Except, Chuck likes to win and Herc has never been content with just admitting defeat.

"No."

Herc lets out through his teeth when Chuck's hands still where he is working them out of the rest of their clothes, and the patience grates if only because neither one of them is a patient man.

"Good, then lift up."

Herc does, and Chuck is shoving the rest of those PPDC-issued sweats off of him.

 

In their shared drift, out of the blue, there is a certain sequence that occurs: where he sees his mother, he sees his wife. That is mum and Ange and from where he stands he is his father and his father's son.

There is not an ending that ends with them going back to that.

They lay waste to this landscape like they lay waste to the Kaiju that have the misfortune of meeting Striker's missiles head on. They lay waste to themselves, and it might have been a poetic gesture if they aren't so well versed in all of this.

 

Chuck has no idea how he gets away with it.

It has to be wishful thinking, he thinks, on everyone else’s part. If it isn’t, Chuck has no idea how nobody has put a stop to this. From the first day of his intake at the Academy to the third year into his service as a Ranger, there has to be some sort of indication in all of those psychological evaluations they have him complete time and time again. It can’t all be for kicks.

He knows exactly who it is that he is fucking.

And maybe that should be a problem when that is his father’s bare skin beneath the calloused pads of his palms, when that is his father fucking down on his fingers, opening himself up with the addition of each new digit. Chuck doesn’t so much as see as he feels Herc shake above him.

Herc has his head bowed, gasping, a catch of breath that leaves him rasping.

Maybe this doesn’t begin to cover it.

In a way, Chuck wishes he is waiting for just any one thing. But he never is. He wants all of it.

He wants all of this man above him.

 

“What are you waiting for?”

_You._

Chuck doesn’t reply, just pushes inside of Herc and lets the other man sink all the way down himself. He can almost imagine Herc saying his name, it might be Charlie, it most definitely is not _Chuck_.

And if he says nothing at all, it is still intimate in every single way they really shouldn’t be.

He starts to move.

 

People have skeletons in their closets and cans of worms to be kept close and closed. What the Hansens have might have a fighting chance at winning a metaphor that includes the Anteverse and a Category III or IV.

They fuck like they fight and when they head for the showers, they are reeking of sex and sweat. There are streaks of cum drying on their skin but neither one of them is limping even though they are bruised and scratched up in unmistakable places. It will take days before they heal and fade but it will be hours before they are thrown into another simulation that has Striker's techs helping them into their circuitry suits.

When they share this much of themselves with each other, they are not looking for an easy way out.

Herc might not have taught him this much but Chuck learns, early on in life, that there is no fair fight in this world. He can drag his feet as he follows after his father, picking up a discarded shirt to wipe down any last hints of them from the mats, but he can still admire that body of incriminating evidence on Herc without a hint of shame.

It points to the two of them still stuck inside a bad drift hangover. It speaks to a good steady neural handshake in their girl. The Australians have a track record of winning, and that is what matters. How they get there, nobody in their right mind wants to be the one to ask a question like that.

When the water starts to fall, it doesn't get rid of much.

It is a good thing they are not looking for that when Herc pulls him under the hot spray, seeking him out to brand him with his mouth.

They aren’t a bad thing together and end it at that.

 


End file.
